And So You Fell
by babybluecas
Summary: Weeks after his Fall, Cas finally reaches the Winchesters in the Bunker. He's dirty, tired and very human.
1. Humanity Isn't Castiel's Thing

"No offense, man, but you stink."

Dean smirks at Cas, whose face is lined with smears of sweat and dust. His lips press into a thin line.

"You try sustaining your cleanliness and decent smell, while traveling hundreds of miles and sleeping on the streets," he says, folding the dirty, blue jacket in his lap. "I learned to use a washing machine, though," he boasts like it means anything. And by the look of it, it doesn't. Not when he didn't have any change to feed a laundromat. Or himself.

"Good for you," Dean says amused and stands up, giving Cas a sign to follow him. "I'll show you to the bathroom."

He winces at the sight of Cas leaving the outer layers of his hobo attire on the chair, because he was only partially kidding about the smell. But he doesn't say anything about it as he leads Cas through the dim corridor to the vast room, brightly lit with electric light. It has everything a bathroom revamped in early 50s should have. And more, because a shower and a bathtub in one bathroom provides more luxury Dean's ever had in his life. And this particular bathtub is, in Dean's opinion, luxurious as fuck.

"Where's the washing machine?" Dean turns to glance at Cas, not sure whether it was his deadpan humor showing or if the guy's really looking for an automatic washer in a post-war bunker.

On the other hand, with all the advanced technology stored here, one could expect to, at least, have a way to wash some clothes. Or for two morons living there for almost a year to acquire it.

"Okay, so here's your towel." Dean pulls out a big, green cloth from a drawer and hands it to him, ignoring the question. "In the meantime, I'll go to the store and grab stuff for you."

"Stuff?" Cas echoes curiously, staring at his filthy palms wrapped around the pale green, at the dirt and blood under his fingernails. He can't render himself clean at will anymore. He can't fix his ripped clothes. Nor can he heal his wounds and bruises, the scratch under his eye or even the papercut on his thumb he keeps rubbing at.

"Yeah, stuff. Like a toothbrush, for one thing. Or a razor, so you can get rid of this peach fuzz of yours."

Cas glances around the bathroom. He looks so fucking lost, with his bare arms and a green t-shirt that doesn't suit him well. With beard that at some point got completely out of control and matted hair, in need of trimming, falling into his red-rimmed eyes.

"Alright," he answers, distracted.

Dean doesn't take his eyes of Cas's back for a second, as the man inspects the white curtain briefly, before spreading it to peek into a shower. He looks around in search of a hook to hang the towel on, but with no luck. Eventually, he decides to throw the towel over the railing and proceeds to take his boots and smelly socks off.

"So, there's my shampoo," Dean comes closer to stand right behind him, "and there's Sam's so it's probably with some lotion that'll make your hair smooth and shiny." He smiles at the sound of Cas's chuckle. "Take whatever you need. You can read, so you'll be fine. I'm sure as an angel you watched people shower once or twice."

"Uh–"

"No, don't tell me," Dean retreats quickly and changes the topic. "I'll bring you some clothes."

He turns away to leave and before he can bite his tongue he throws a light joke, he regrets the next second.

"Let me know if you want me to wash your back."

"Dean," Cas stops him and Dean's eyes grow in panic, as he turns around.

"I was joking, Cas," he explains, embarrassed.

"Dean," Cas repeats and his expression clearly indicates that he didn't even consider Dean's offer for a second. "Thank you," he says instead, with a sincere gratitude in his voice and his eyes staring right into Dean's.

Dean has missed those eyes and the intensity of that stare. For weeks he fought the thought that he'd never see them again.

Again.

With every time that Cas had disappeared, it was harder to believe he'd come back, but at the same time it was harder to accept that he wouldn't. Dean knows that one day Cas may be gone for good, yet he'll still be waiting for him to come home. Because Cas always comes back to him.

That's why when Dean saw Cas standing at the Bat Cave's door earlier today – dirty, hopeless and so incredibly human – for a second he allowed himself to hope that maybe this time he'd stay. It scared him, the first thought that passed through his mind, because it was so wrong, but for just a moment he felt the happiness rush through his body, when a tiny voice in his head whispered: "He's human, he can't disappear, he can't go away."

He curses himself for that thought now, looking at Cas, thinking about how humanity has treated him in those first few weeks. Ill-fitting, like his old trenchcoat that is now gone; hardening, like the blisters that bloomed on his feet from walking; humiliating, like homelessness and hunger.

Humanity surely isn't Castiel's thing.

"Cas, are you okay?" Dean speaks finally, breaking the awkward silence when neither of them moved.

"Yes, Dean. I told you I'm fine," Cas answers quickly.

"Not what I meant." He passes the distance across the tiled floor, to get back close to him and spreads his arms encouragingly. "Will you be okay?"

It's like an echo of that conversation almost a year ago, only this time Dean is not gonna let anyone disturb them. After what he heard then – I'm afraid I might kill myself – how could he have let him go?

"Yeah, I-" He doesn't look at Dean, he chooses to stare at his fingers instead. The lie couldn't be more obvious. "I will."

Dean's not taking his bullshit. Not now, not anymore. He's close enough to reach to his hairy chin and gently force Cas to look him in the eye.

"I'm just tired." It sounds like an excuse and Dean knows he's about to back away.

"Just talk to me," he pleads, fully aware of the ridiculousness of holding such serious conversation in the bathroom.

"Dean, I'm tired. I just want to take a shower and go to sleep."

Cas sounds resigned, but to Dean's surprise he doesn't say no, he doesn't turn away. Instead, he lets the toilet lid down to have something to sit on and doesn't raise his eyes to Dean's. But this time it's not because of dishonesty.

"I'm tired and it irritates me," he starts slowly, "I am covered in my own sweat. I have to eat and for the past few weeks I've been walking around constantly hungry and I can only hope to never experience it again. I need to urinate regularly, I need to sleep and most of the time I shiver from cold, no matter how many layers I put on."

Dean exhales slowly, taking in the fallen angel's confession. He should have expected it would be those small things, those seemingly insignificant things, that would break Cas from the get go. Even when it's bad, it's easier to push through when you're accustomed to all the shitty needs and inconveniences of being a human from the very beginning. Castiel the Angel never had to worry about pooping and exhaustion.

And there's still so much more that's to come for him, more crushing, more painful. Which one will be the final straw?

"I'm sorry, Cas." That's all Dean has to offer, except for the comforting touch of his palm on Cas's knee.

"And the worst part is," he continues and his voice cracks, "that I know it won't ever go away."

There's a glimmer in Cas's eye when he glances at Dean. He wipes it off, smearing dirt along his cheekbone. He takes in the air slowly, trying to regain his composure to sound at least a bit convincing when he speaks again.

"But like I said: I'll be fine," he assures Dean. "Eventually."

Despite the shift in Cas's body that indicates this conversation is over, Dean doesn't take his hand off Cas's knee. He shuffles through the words in his head, trying to find the right ones, ones that could fix things for Cas or at least make him a little bit better. There's nothing, because what the hell do you even say to all that? But he has to try, even if all he can offer is some utter cliché crap.

"Alright, listen to me," he starts and waits for Cas's attention. "I can't tell you it will go away, because it won't. What I can promise you is that you'll get used to all of it. It'll be a pain in the ass and it will take time, but we, humans, are a resilient bunch of sons of bitches and so are you."

When he's finished, neither of them moves. Cas hardly seems touched by Dean's pep talk, like he didn't even hear it. His resigned eyes, though still fixed on Dean's, seek escape.

The urge to grab Cas, pull him into a tight, comforting hug and let the actions speak better for him than words can, nags Dean, but he fights it well. He knows he couldn't trust himself with the warmth of Cas's new, fragile body in his arms.

Long seconds pass before Cas opens his mouth again.

"Yeah, okay," he mutters, not so much dismissive as disheartened.

He doesn't look at Dean anymore. Apparently, the pattern on the opposite wall is more absorbing, and so is the golden ornament on the bathtub's edge. Dean's palm gets heavier and heavier, until he has to withdraw it. He clears his throat.

"Uh, I guess I'll go get those clothes for you now," Dean mumbles, gracelessly backing away from Cas's personal bubble.

"Yeah, Dean, do that." He seems to be in complete control of his voice and emotions again and the next second he finds shampoo's label to be the most interesting thing ever.

Cas is already in the shower, when Dean comes back carrying his own pair of jeans, a t-shirt and an unused pair of boxers. Certain that Cas can't hear him over the flush of water, he enters the bathroom to leave the clothes on the countertop. He smiles to himself, when he realizes that Cas is humming some melody Dean can't recognize. For a moment, he wonders where Cas learned it. Maybe it's some remnant of the angel frequency or maybe he heard it somewhere on the radio during his hitchhike trip home. Maybe he picked it up in the homeless camp he told them about.

But it isn't important what song it is; singing in the shower is such a human thing to do and one of the nicest, little, human things for that matter. Tiny pleasures. Dean swears to himself, he'll teach Cas to appreciate each one of them. Then, maybe, as long as there'll be the good stuff to balance its burden, humanity will give Cas a chance?


	2. Sleep

Dean's wide awake and up on his feet before he can fully register what it was that woke him. A loud thud, he realizes, already out the door, and a muffled scream shut into silence. This can't be good, this is never good. He knows screams, they've accompanied his life since he could remember and they only ever meant trouble, at best.

And it's not just the matter of the scream itself. There have been screams in the bunker lately, carried through the corridors, seeping from Cas's nightmares straight into Dean's. But those yells Dean's come to learn, too, through the nights when he ended up at Cas's bedside. They are distinct: low growls and high cries of a trapped man on the run.

This scream was ragged and sharp, borne with violence and cut short. And the silence - the silence is something to be worried about, too. A reason enough to race across the dark hallway and hit the door at the peak of alertness.

Dean barges into Cas's bedroom, expecting the worst. With clenched jaw, he flicks on the light. He breaths out, relieved. There's no sign of blood or fight. There's only Cas with his eyes wide and confused, sitting in the middle of what used to be his bed, now is just a mess; a skewed mattress with one side on the floor, the other on the broken frame. He's safe and sound, if startled by his sudden trip to the ground that ripped him out of a dream.

Dean bursts out laughing, stuck in the doorway, and it takes him a moment to collect himself and rush to Cas's side. He leans to rescue him from tangled sheets and pulls him out of the bed wreckage, making sure he doesn't hurt himself on the cracked bed frame.

"I don't know what happened," Cas murmurs.

He's still halfway on the other side of consciousness, looking around the room, as if trying to figure out how he went from sleeping, to an epic crash, to standing barefoot in Dean's loose embrace.

Dean grunts awkwardly and lets go of Cas's flannel-clad waist.

"Yeah, Cas, how the hell did you manage to break your bed?" He raises an eyebrow, cutting down on the amusement, only letting it play on the corners of his lips.

"I'm sorry, Dean, I-"

"Oh."

They both turn their eyes toward the surprised voice from the doorway, to see Sam's embarrassed face, hidden in his flawless, bed-mussed hair.

"I don't think I wanna know what you did with the bed."

And with that he's quickly gone, leaving Dean slightly astounded and speechless, because he didn't direct the 'you' at both of them, did he?

"Dean."

Reminded of Cas's presence and the bed problem, Dean smiles at the poor guy.

"S'okay, Cas, the wood must've been rotten," he says, grabbing Cas's bedding. "Sorry, I should've checked. All the stuff here's pretty old."

"Where are you going?" Cas asks, but he follows him through the hallway to the bedroom Cas knows pretty well.

"We don't have any other habitable beds at the moment," Dean throws Cas's stuff on his own memory foam mattress, "so you'll crash here for tonight."

Cas doesn't respond until Dean starts gathering his own sheets.

"Where will you sleep?" He sits down on the edge of the mattress, hesitant.

"That's what sofas are for."

Cas grasps Dean's wrist as the man reaches for the pillow and lets go of it just as quickly.

"I had a nightmare," he confesses, although that's hardly a shocker.

It's been weeks of sleepless nights and Dean calming Cas down and lulling him back to sleep to the embarrassment of the both of them. It's been going progressively better, though. With a use of some psychology tricks off the Internet, Cas began to distinguish the vivid nightmares from the reality.

Dean throws the sheets back and climbs on the bed. As Cas turns to him, his bare knee bumps against Dean's.

"That would kinda explain the bed." Dean smirks, but more seriously adds, "You know it was just a dream."

"I know, Dean. It's just-" He sighs heavily and rubs at his face. "It was different."

"Yeah, okay." Dean sends him his most understanding look and waits for Cas to elaborate.

"When I'm lying in bed, I concentrate on that thought, that I am here, in the bunker. So when the next thing I know is endless running or angels or- Then some part of my subconsciousness remembers that something's not right."

"That's good, Cas. Just give it time."

"It's not about time. They've changed. Recently they aren't about me, they're..." Cas trails off and looks down at his knees.

Dean's hand automatically reaches out to Cas' shoulder.

"About what?" he encourages.

"They're about you," Cas murmurs in answer.

Dean takes in a sharp breath, then smiles softly.

"Is that why you've been peeking into my room at nights?"

Cas's face goes red with embarrassment, as he mutters a quiet apology, but Dean is amused not angry. At first he felt uncomfortable when he saw a figure peeking into his room, but he never said a thing. After all, mom used to say that angels are watching over him. Now he has his own fallen angel to do so.

"Nah, not what I meant Cas." He cocks his head to look Cas in the eyes and waits for him to follow. "You were making sure I'm okay."

"Yes." Cas visibly fights the urge to look away. "Every time I woke up I- I just couldn't get back to sleep. And I tried. I told myself it was just a dream and that nothing bad can happen to you here. But that feeling- it just wouldn't go away."

Dean pulls himself off the bed and, to Castiel's evident surprise, starts rearranging the sheets on the bed.

"I know that feeling too well," he admits, putting their pillows next to each other and sitting back down, comfortably.

He pats the mattress, invitingly and doesn't continue until Cas joins him.

"There were times when I'd have nightmares about Sam; dying or kidnapped, night after night," Dean starts quietly, like he's spilling out his big secret. "Especially when we were younger. I'd wake up, drained in sweat, but then I'd look at the bed beside mine and he was always there, breathing, so I knew all was good."

Cas listens attentively, his eyes fixed on Dean. Dean shifts, to turn his face to Cas, but then he looks down, shyly.

"So there was this one time, I was like… fifteen? So I was too old for that stuff, right? For some time we squatted in this old house, with a lot of rooms. For the first time in a long time I slept alone in a room. And then I woke up from this terrible nightmare and there was no Sammy in the room. I freaked out. I tried not to freak out, but I did. So I went down the hallway and found his room and of course Sammy had to catch me."

Dean hides a fond smile at the memory.

"What happened then?" Cas asks impatiently.

"Then my stupid, little brother moved to make some space for me in his bed. Without a question or a comment or even a smirk."

"Did that solve your problem?"

"Yeah, we kinda slept like that for the rest of the stay and I didn't have a nightmare once, so…" He flashes a smug smile and pulls up his covers. "I thought it might work for you too."

"Do you mean…?" Luckily, Cas quickly catches his drift and looks at him shocked.

"Yup, this bed's big enough, so as long as you don't steal my covers, we're good."

"Are you sure?"

Oh boy, is he not sure. There have been way too many times that his spontaneity led him to bed, but never like that, never just to actually sleep. And never with Cas. But when he looked at the poor bastard's miserable face, he got that stupid idea and he didn't bite his tongue in time. And now he just can't say no. Even if every cell in his body is telling him that it's not a good idea.

Because it's Cas.

But on the other hand, it's Cas. So if there's anything Dean can do to help the guy, he will. And so he nods and watches a thankful smile grow on Castiel's face, as he puts his head on the soft pillow.

"Thank you, Dean," he whispers.

"Yeah," Dean murmurs, lying on his back. "But if you tell Sam about it, you'll be sleeping in the bathtub," he jokes and hears Cas huff out a laugh.

"I promise," he says amused, and Dean takes a quick peek at him, before turning the light off.

Complete darkness floods the room and it almost feels like nothing has changed. Almost, because now the silence is cut with two easy breaths instead of one and the temperature at his side's just a little bit higher. It doesn't take Cas long to fall asleep again, his breathing slows, his tiny moves are reflected in the mattress. Dean follows soon after, and until the very morning there are no more cries stirring him in his shallow sleep.


	3. The Importance of the Trenchcoat

Dean isn't a sentimental kind of guy. At least officially he isn't. So if someone was to ever ask: he just appreciates the emotional value of some material objects. After all, having spent most of his life in a car, surrounded by the few things he owned, he can't be blamed for getting emotionally attached to them.

There aren't very many of those things. Some of them got lost during the apocalypse and he might have even drunk a glass – or a bottle – of whisky to one of them. Most of the remaining stuff easily fit into his room. And then, there's Baby, but she's a fine car, so no one could hold her against him. Same goes for the weapons he likes more than the rest, but they don't really matter all that much.

And once there was a thing more important than others and it didn't even belong to him. Yet he carried it around like a fucking sap and held on to it with his life. When everything seemed too dull to snap him out of the numbness, one peak at the beige trench in some junk car's trunk was like a gun shot through his brain. For a few months, it was everything.

And now it was gone for good.

He never asked about it and Cas didn't mention it either. It was just a coat after all. But still, from the moment Dean saw Cas standing in that door, looking so wrong in a blue, ragged jacket and with no sign of having other belongings on him, the fate of that stupid trenchcoat hasn't left Dean's mind.

Dean's aware that asking doesn't serve any purpose anyway because it would just be crying over spilled milk. Cas probably didn't have a second thought ditching it in a dumpster.

So when the perfect opportunity finally comes, he doesn't dare to make a fuss.

It happens while they shop for a new coat for Cas. Dark and classic, ideal for impersonating an FBI agent or whoever the hell his future hunts would require. Given the taste for clothes the former angel started quickly developing, he definitely needed a style advisor in form of a Winchester and, of course, it had to be Dean.

"Cas-" he starts, while Cas tries on a black pea coat, and has a problem with uttering any words once Cas turns to him, doing up the last button.

"I think I like this one," Cas says, gazing at Dean and awaiting his opinion.

At first, Dean doesn't dare to speak, not trusting his voice. Hoping that the moment feels this prolonged only in his head, he clears his throat.

"Yeah, uh-" He's certain by now Cas noted his hesitation and didn't miss the flip of Dean's tongue, while his eyes slid up and down over perfectly fit coat. "Awesome," he mumbles, finally.

Cas's face lights up. Whether it's because of Dean's approval of the coat or because of his astonishment is unsure.

"But I think it might not be warm enough for the winter."

"Don't worry about the winter, Cas. Is it warm enough for now?"

"Yes. It's significantly warmer than my old coat. Luckily, because I wouldn't fit too many layers under this one."

At that Dean chuckles, but he doesn't miss the opportunity, as he watches Cas take the coat off.

"Yeah. By the way, what happened to your old coat?"

At that Cas's face visibly falls, as he turns his eyes to the floor. And it's not what Dean expected. A simple, matter-of-factly "I threw it away" or something along that line, but not a bashful apology.

"It- uh," he starts, muttering, while he distracts himself with a pair of leather gloves he picked up from the shelf. "I couldn't wash off the blood stains, so I threw it away. I needed to get rid of it anyway, it was too characteristic. It was easier to hide from the angels without it."

"Yeah, right. That's obvious," Dean agrees, because that, of course, makes a lot of sense. He's ready to drop the subject, with his mind quickly skipping to the mental image of the gloves Cas holds added into his new coat and he really, really likes that image. "You should take these too."

Apparently for Cas the conversation isn't over. Probably because he knows how big of a sap Dean is. Or maybe because he's just as sentimental as Dean is and maybe he kinda sorta liked that coat too.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, moving across the almost empty store to get to the checkout.

"What? Why?" Dean's confused. Since when does he have to be sorry for taking precautions?

"I know it meant a lot to you," Cas explains and he doesn't even lower his voice as he adds: "When I was gone, you-"

"Shut up Cas," Dean quickly cuts him off, before he can finish.

He doesn't need to be reminded of it. He remembers very well, every time that he picked the coat up from the trunk and moved it to another stolen car that wasn't Baby. He remembers fishing it out of that lake and folding it, cradling like the most precious thing. He remembers how much it had all been worth, when he finally found the angel and handed it to him. But that was then and he gets it now: almost three years later, the coat doesn't mean a damn thing.

"What the fuck are you even talking about?" he goes on. "You still don't get it, do you? Man, you were dead back then. Cas." Cas stops as Dean's hand lands on his shoulder. "Hey, Cas, come on."

Dean's features soften as he looks at Cas. If he has to say it again, he has to do it right and maybe Cas will finally get it without Dean spelling it out for him. Their faces are inches away and Dean's palm, still laying on his arm, itches to cup Cas's face, but he squeezes his shoulder tenderly, instead.

"Cas, I'd rather have you, than that stupid coat."

And Cas gets it, at least for now. He just smiles with that look in his eyes, like he's staring at a fucking miracle and nods.

"Geez, you're an idiot sometimes, Cas." Dean laughs, feeling the atmosphere relax instantly. "Besides," he adds, grabbing a green-and-blue, striped scarf and wrapping it around Cas's neck, "You look much better in the new one."


	4. Rise and Shine, Cas

Waking up is hard. Whether he's stirred awake by a nightmare or by the alarm clock he's acquired not to snooze until noon. It always feels like he slept too little and it's hiding behind his eyelids, and in a yawn that's trying to escape his throat for the rest of the day. However Dean has managed to survive on his alleged four hours; after a restless night of nightmares and counting sheep, for Cas that isn't enough.

Waking up is hard, because for a moment, when he's still stuck between the state of dream and the waking world, he forgets he's not an angel. Only in those few short seconds, he's still got his wings and his grace. The sad realization comes all too soon, sometimes because of the ache in his neck, when he's slept in a wrong position. Most of the times, because he needs to pee.

He rolls off the bed, never without a low groan, then he stretches his arms and flexes his back to force the sleepy muscles to wake. His furry slippers feel balmy and so does the air around him, making slipping from under the covers that much easier. Bless the bunker for staying warm against the terrible, autumn cold outside.

Sometimes both Winchesters and Kevin are already awake by the time he gets to the main room, and the old walls echo their voices. Sometimes the room is empty and quiet and the whole place feels ancient, with his rushed footsteps being the only sound cutting through the air.

Cas likes it best when it's just Sam, sipping his coffee by the map table, simply relaxed, without the laptop on or the papers and books piled before him, because it's way too early for work. On those mornings, Cas stops on his way to the bathroom and pours himself some coffee instead. Sam shoots a smile at him with a "Mornin', Cas" and they just sit there together like that, enjoying the company and the idle moment before a busy day.

The bathroom feels just a little bit colder than the rest of the bunker. Though, it might only be an illusion created by the snowy tiles and steel and glassy surfaces. It quickly fills up with hot steam, as Cas plays with the taps to balance the heat just right. Perfect temperature. Perfect water pressure.

The shower is his favorite part of the whole morning routine he's slowly starting to get accustomed to, even if the very necessity is annoying. He steps under the stream, tipping his head, letting the water wet his hair, drip down his face and all over his body. His nostrils fill with a "manly" scent as he lathers the shower gel on every inch of his skin and then it mixes with some mint or orange when he shampoos his overgrown hair and slowly massages his scalp. He takes his time with the whole ritual whenever he can, stays under the stream a few minutes longer, before grabbing a towel and walking out.

He leaves a wet path of footsteps on his way to the sink, where his reflection's waiting in the mirror. He's learned the hard way not to stare for too long at it, not to think. It's not easy to pretend you're not what you are, standing eye to eye with yourself. Instead, he focuses on combing his wet hair and brushing his teeth and, occasionally, on the quick passes of the razor along his jaw. But he only ever shaves when he knows he'll have to pose for an FBI agent on a hunt. Other than that, he just lets it be, and when there are no jobs for him for a longer time, the beard grows long and soft and thick, and he likes to stroke it with his fingertips and have it shield his face from the frost. And on those huntless, furry days, he thinks he's really happy.

He spends the rest of the mornings wrapped tight in his dark blue robe, which supposedly matches his eyes, or so Dean murmured once, throwing it at him. From time to time he even cooks breakfast; scrambles eggs or makes piles of toasts while the bacon sizzles in the pan. If Dean's up, they tend to compete at tossing pancakes, and those, with chocolate sauce, are Cas's favorite. He's developed quite a sweet tooth if he's being honest, and even his coffee can't pass without some sugar and a lot of milk anymore.

They eat together in the kitchen, all four of them. Their little, weird family; the Winchester Boys, the Ex-Angel and the Prophet of the Lord. They're all tired from the inside out, with deep creases etched on their brows, sporting shadows under their eyes more often than not, yet still chatty, with the traces of their past selves resounding in their chuckles, and with a new determination to save the world once again.

Waking up is hard. And on some days it's even harder than on others. But sitting there like that, watching the boys laugh, three extraordinary humans who just never give up, Cas knows that as long as he doesn't, either, he will be fine.


	5. His Damn Hair

Sometimes Dean feels like the whole world is against him. And sure, most of the time it is; what with the demons and angels and their apocalypses. But when it's not, there are still those two idiots who live with him, and their shaggy hair. He's given up on Sam a long, long time ago when he realized Sam's a lost cause. But for Cas, he reckons, there might still be hope.

It begins a few months after the Fall. At first, Dean's sure that, lost in the pileup of previously unimportant stuff on Cas's plate, something as trivial as a haircut didn't even occur to the beginner human. Later Dean starts to wonder if he should give him a nudge in the right direction, in case the guy doesn't figure it out by himself. Eventually, he decides to mention it completely casually over the supper.

"Are you gonna cut your hair?" he asks as soon as Sam leaves the room, for the lil' bro could try to stand up in Cas's defense. There's probably something like long-haired dudes code and Dean doesn't want to become the public enemy number one.

"No," is all Cas says, without even raising his eyes from the box of noodles.

Slightly surprised at the quick answer, Dean leaves it at that then, but he doesn't give up. The level of his distress increases in direct proportion to the length of Cas's hair. And he knows it shouldn't be such a problem for him, he really does. But there's something about those dark, wavy locks and the way they start falling on Cas's forehead, that just won't let him be. Soon Dean gets the slightest bit obsessed with the curls behind his ears and with the fingers playing with them absentmindedly.

It doesn't take Dean long to realize that when he starts teasing Cas about his mane – which, of course, he does – it's for a completely different reason than when he teases Sam. More and more often he finds himself staring at it, fascinated, with his own fingers itching to stroke it. Each stray strand keeps him fighting the urge to reach and fix it. And when, sometimes, Cas passes him on his way from the bedroom to bathroom, straight from bed, with this terrible, beautiful mess on his head; well, Dean's only lucky if the pants he's wearing are loose enough.

So maybe it's some twisted, petty version of destroy the thing you love. Maybe he's looking for an excuse to touch it. Mostly he just wants his cock's frustration to end. That's why he really hopes that the day when any of his _Are you racing with Sam?'_ s and _You gonna start braiding each other's hair?'_ s succeeds comes sooner than later. If ever.

Cas doesn't seem to notice the impact he and his hair have on Dean. Which is good, of course. Cas just does his thing, takes half a second to swipe the wayward locks off his face, then continues doing his thing. And he'll never know he's the reason Dean shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

Cas's hand rises to his hair again.

He's been doing it for the past eighteen minutes, keeping Dean stuck on the third page of the book he's reading. It doesn't matter how hard he tries not to look there: he registers the movement with the corner of his eye and the words in front of him lose meaning.

"Do you need a headband?" Dean snaps finally, slightly irritated.

He knows exactly what's up with that: the wondrous bangs finally hit the point where they fall into the guy's eyes just begging for a trim.

"What?" Cas looks up from his research to glance at Dean, confused. As a confirmation of Dean's suspicion, brown locks fly down past his brows and straight into Cas's pretty, blue eyes.

"You're gonna hurt your hand if you keep doing that."

It takes Cas a beat and another swipe to get what Dean's talking about. His palm stops mid-movement.

"You mean my hair?" he asks and squints, looking up to examine the strand held between his fingers. "Yeah, I should probably get it cut," he decides, leaving Dean completely stumped.

All those months of Dean's torment and now he mentions it just like that?

"Wow, really? Why the change of heart, Rapunzel?"

Cas shrugs.

"It just never bothered me before," he replies simply and goes back to reading.

Dean knows he's gotta act, and he's gotta act quickly.

"So, uh," he begins, but then he's not sure what exactly he wants to say, so he just ends up clearing his throat

Cas stares at him again, swipes his hair back, again.

"So what?"

He can't let the topic die, not now when they're so close, because if he does, this might just go on for another week or two. Dean's eyes land on the ex-angel's mane once more, he licks his lips that have suddenly gone dry.

"When?" he mutters. "I mean, when are you…?"

Cas's eyebrow disappears under his fringe.

"Dean, it's ten o'clock. Do you expect me to find an open barbershop now?"

"No, I- I mean- uh," he starts stuttering again and he really wants to punch himself in the face for that. Get yourself together, Winchester. "I mean I could, uh, help," he manages to utter, finally.

"Oh, okay." Cas surprises Dean once more with his immediate response, as he puts the papers down and gets up.

"Okay."

That's how they end up in the bathroom with a chair standing in the middle.

Dean quickly regrets the command of "take off your shirt" thrown at Cas, because yeah, he wanted to save it from getting hairs all over, but then, he'd really like to keep his own pants clean, too. Apparently Cas also worries about his own favorite sweatpants, because he takes them off right after the shirt. For some reason, it takes Dean way too long to find the scissors in the first-aid kit. And when he does, Cas is already sitting, turned away from him. So if Dean ignores the line of his bare shoulders peeking over the chair, the situation seems relatively safe. For now.

The scissors are quite small, but they're perfectly sharp, so they should do their job just fine.

"Have you done this before?" Cas asks as if it has just occurred to him.

"Don't worry, I won't ruin your pretty locks," Dean assures him. "I've practice."

Cas huffs out a chuckle.

"I was just curious."

Dean speaks to the back of his head, playing with the scissors, slowly starting to regret his earlier eagerness to help.

"I've cut Sam's hair quite a few times when he was younger," he explains. "Now he won't let me touch it, of course. Back then it was always a better option than the clippers in dad's hand."

Cas nods and goes quiet, Dean takes it for his cue to begin. When he runs his fingers through Cas's hair, he finds out it's as soft as he imagined it. He knows he's prolonging the moment, but the man doesn't seem to mind, as his head slightly leans to the touch.

"Alright, so, uh-" His low voice brings them both back to reality. "How do you want it?"

"Hm?"

"The hair," Dean reminds him, in case it slipped his mind when he gave in to the pleasure. "How do you want me to cut it? Like before? Leave it longer?"

He gives him the choice, of course, and by now, he's not even sure which answer he's hoping for anymore because damn does his hair feel nice. Instead, the new thought appears in his head: whether he could find other opportunities to pet it more often.

Cas stays silent, weighing his possibilities.

"If I keep it longer, you'll just go on teasing me about it, won't you?" he asks finally. The question steals a chuckle from Dean.

"Of course I will," he answers honestly, with a wide smile on his face. "And you can just tell me to shut it," he adds.

This time it's Cas who laughs.

"Alright then, leave it longer," he decides. "Just keep it out of my eyes."

"Yes, sir."

With that, Dean grabs a comb, partially relieved and yet partially disappointed, because this wasn't the goal, this is the exact opposite; no rest for the obsessed and a wee bit horny. He starts making passes through the dark locks, trying to figure out where to make the first cut. At last, he closes the scissors' blades, hacking away just enough to grant Cas several weeks of not giving a shit again, yet spare those fucking curls on the back of his neck. Dean's weak and he knows it.

For a while only the sound of snipping fills the bathroom.

"Dude, relax."

Judging by the noise escaping his mouth, Cas isn't even aware his muscles tensed with each snap, putting a strain on Dean's composure, making his hands itch to put the blades down, slide down the angel's neck, massage out the knots in his shoulders, free the tension from his back… Suddenly Dean's thankful for the wooden chair between them, making it the only wood Cas can feel pressed against his spine.

He takes a deep breath; it looks like it's him who should relax.

"Don't you trust me?" he jokes.

"I trust you with my life," Cas deadpans and Dean isn't amused.

"Shut up."

He moves to the left side. His eyes slide down the old, pale sigil scarring Castiel's chest, to his palms folded on his dark-green boxers. His thumbs fidget, his back's still rigid straight.

"Are you okay, Cas?"

Disturbingly often has Dean asked that question lately. Ever since Cas fell, he's been good. Sure, he's had worse days when forcing a smile out of him was a challenge that Dean took upon himself, he's had moments when irritation at the simplest things turned into anger. But in all honesty, Dean expected worse. It hasn't come yet and he plans to make sure it never will.

At this very moment, though, the question serves a double function, mainly to break the silence that's become sensually overwhelming. It lets Dean shift his attention to the former angel's words, instead of his body.

"Why wouldn't I be?" There's puzzlement in Cas's voice.

"You haven't relaxed."

Cas circles his shoulders in response.

"Better?" He grins.

"Too late." Dean shakes his head with a smile. "Plus, I don't know, a new human thing? Changing your appearance and all that stuff. Doesn't that, uh?" he trails off, gesturing vaguely.

"Oh, no this- this feels nice," he admits and takes a moment to find the right words to explain. "It's only the unpleasant stuff that is problem. Sensations like stomach ache or exhaustion. So if you want to talk about hair, think more about washing it every day and drying and combing. Showers, shaving, sweating, shivering from cold, lying in bed when I can't fall asleep, yawning," he enumerates in one breath. "It's all so demanding and annoying; restraining, really. And sometimes I wonder how you people do it and then I remember: oh wait, I'm a human too. Only I don't have the advantage of having been accustomed to all this since childhood."

There is not a note of grief in his voice during the speech and he's completely calm when he ends it, like he just says what needs to be said, with a certain, unexpected sense of detachment.

"Oh," Dean gasps out as he resumes trimming though he didn't even realize he'd ever stopped. He forces himself to focus solely on the blades' work and not on the bits of hair falling down on Cas's shoulders, sliding along his arms before hitting the floor. Somehow, out of all things Cas said, what his mind lingers on is that this feels _nice_.

Dean's done with the other side all too quickly and he stops for a second to inspect his own work. There's only the main suspect of a fringe left to tame.

"Close your eyes," he orders and Cas follows.

Dean feels himself hold his breath as he leans over Cas, their faces get dangerously close. His eyes flick down to the guy's hands resting in the strategic spot and he wonders if it was intentional or purely coincidental. The thought can't leave his head as he cuts the hair over the eyebrows, lets them flow down. Cas wrinkles his nose as some hairs catch on it and tickle.

Other hairs catch on Cas's eyelashes and Dean just can't ignore them. The warmth of ex-angel's breath hits his face as he stoops even closer to blow the bits off. Cas smells of chewing gum and some hair lotion. Cheater. Cas has got the lightest spatter of freckles from sunny Kansas summer and even with his awesome eyes hidden behind his eyelids, his face is the fucking best thing; with those lashes and the cheekbones and those chapped lips surrounded by a thick, dark stubble. Those lips…

Dean reflects suddenly and shoots backwards so rapidly he almost stumbles. His pants feel freakishly tight, his eyes have grown wide with shock. Well, that was close – the whatever he thought he was planning to do. Cas doesn't even move. Goddammit, Winchester. He won't dare to touch that mane ever again, that's for sure.

"Uh, done," he mutters, once he's certain he can trust his voice, and by then he's already on the opposite side of the bathroom. "You like it?"

The change is visible but not radical. The back and sides are shorter, but, according to the instruction, not too short. The fluffy top he hardly touched at all and the properly trimmed bangs is swiped neatly to the side.

Cas brushes the tufts of hair off himself before stepping up to the mirror. Dean awaits his opinion as Cas runs his fingers through his mane. There's this smile again, only more lopsided, more playful, as he glances at Dean.

"Yeah, I like it."

While Cas's gathering his clothes, Dean nervously rubs his hand over his mouth, peeping towards the shower desirably. He's kinda pleased with himself, sorta terrified and more than a wee bit horny.

Yeah, he kinda likes it, too.

* * *

PSA: the bad news is, I'm officially out of chapters to add, so it might be some time until the next one. But feel free to keep nagging me about it, if you feel like it, might just help :)


	6. The Dangers of Developing a Sweet Tooth

"You guys don't walk enough. You're gonna get flabby" - prompt by Anloquen

* * *

To liken Dean's current situation to hell is not really that much of a stretch. His whole body, his every muscle is in flames, throat dried out from the constant rush of air in and out, lungs a few more starved gulps away from bursting out and imploding at once.

Ironically, the only part of his body that is not in agony are his legs, which, by now do the whole dirty work independently from his brain's commands (his brain yells "stop jogging, you moron"). But that's only because he can't feel his legs at all. For the moment at least. He doesn't have the slightest doubt that it's just a matter of seconds, minutes at best until the flames rush down through them again with double the force. For now, his upper body seems to be floating through the cool, morning air that brings little relief. That is not to say there's anything remotely pleasant about the experience. And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow he might just drop a few hell circles deeper when he cannot move a sore muscle.

And to think the whole torture could have been avoided had Dean not been a total dog for a little slice of flesh. Cas's tummy, to be precise, pale skin marked with the trail of dark hairs leading all the way down under the hem of Cas's jeans, leaving a whole lot to Dean's wild imagination. In fact, it's all Cas's fault. Cas's and his complete lack of restrictions. It's been years, now, of Dean's reprimands about the personal space issues and it's like talking to a wall. Or worse - walls don't usually go rubbing their crotch into a guy's face.

Who the hell does that? And in a totally non-sexy situation at that. Sure, said crotch was jean-clad, thank fuck, and— well, alright, maybe said "rubbing" wasn't nearly as intrusive of his face as it felt at the time. Took place a good few inches away, in fact, and maybe, just maybe, Dean could have easily turned his eyes away, the whole head even. He could have found a nice spot on the bookshelf on the left and wait out Cas grabbing the book from above his head in peace.

But Dean didn't do that, because he's Dean and because one second he was chilling in his armchair, next the armchair got busy with the two of them, Cas on his tiptoes, leg slipped between Dean's knees. One hand pressed next to his head for support, the other reaching high, movement raising the purple hem of his shirt, baring the buckle, the fly, a stripe of his stomach right before Dean's eyes.

And fuck Dean (literally, please) if his eyes weren't thorough scanning his landscape, the curve of Cas's tummy, soft edges of his hip bones begging to be licked as they peaked out where his jeans slipped down, barely holding on in a still reasonably decent place, brown belt doing a totally shitty job there.

The belt itself, in conditions as unfavorable as they were, didn't so much as raise Dean's eyebrow in passing. It should have - cheap leather-wannabe stretched around the loose hole, rubbed pale from the metal stripe to the right of the buckle. All too insignificant to compete for his attention with the treasure trail just above it, it curled itself into the hook of a question mark and nested at the back of his mind to nag him gently when Dean's only operating brain was not the one restricted by the cotton of his boxers.

The sweet torment took no more than a few seconds before Cas pulled away and went on with his business like nothing had happened. With the book under the arm, he pulled his shirt down and his baggy hand-me-down jeans up like he hadn't just handed Dean a one-way ticket under the shower. To top it off, the asshole stole the last donut from the box like it had his name on it and left the library without so much as a hello.

In retrospect, the incident hardly seemed all that big of a deal, even to Dean. It's not like that was the first time Cas had put his pants in danger. By then, Dean had had enough shower sessions to get over the initial panic at his cock's reaction to Cas's hair or tummy or other body parts. So yeah, he might have hots for a guy, but as long as he doesn't say it out loud, he's good.

Had Dean had the slightest idea what (totally non-sexy) turn the things would take from there, he'd have made damn sure to never let his eyes stray anywhere near the strategic parts of Cas's body. Or any parts of Cas's body. Or just— Cas, in general.

And he'd definitely keep his fucking trap shut.

In Dean's defense, he tried. He did keep his mouth shut, his hungry eyes and thoughts away from his friend. But, of course, that couldn't last long. The not-so-strong resolution crumbled, at once, under the glaring provocation from Cas. Because not staring at his lips was hard enough without the white smudge on the arch of his upper lip. And that, too, was merely the cherry on top, what with Cas sporting his bangs combed up in a swirl, shoulders bared by the white undershirt. Some hummed melody seeped from between those lips and it might have just been Creedence, his fingers flipped through papers laid out on the table before him.

Cas perked his head up at Dean's entrance, face towards Dean, never letting him just pass by and go on with his day. There it was, the obnoxious evidence of— well, of something. Judging by his five o'clock shadow, not of shaving. And having that crossed off the list, Dean didn't have many other guesses. Only one, really, and it made him lick his own lips half-consciously. Whipped cream. Well, if it wasn't a perfect rom-com scenario. Whatever kind of test this was, he was failing it miserably. Cas's lips were certainly one of those parts of him he was not supposed to stare at, and most definitely not dream of sucking them clean.

"You've got some, uh—" Dean pointed to Cas's face from the safe distance when the guy's mirroring reaction hadn't kicked in.

Cas fumbled a bit around his mouth, failing to wipe the smear off and Dean's fingers started to do some serious itching to reach out and do it for him. Hardly containing himself, Dean raised one finger to his own lip to help Cas navigate.

Finally, Cas found the spot, wiped the cream off with his thumb and obscenely put it into his mouth, sucked gently to lick it off, never letting his eyes off Dean's. And, God, all this had gotten too hard to write off as Cas's social skills failure.

Or maybe it was Dean's mind making up things, because when the next second Cas informed him that it had, in fact, been whipped cream, he did so in the most passionless way possible.

And then his tongue slipped out nonchalantly to wash off the sugary residue and Dean had to physically turn his entire body away, cast his eyes to the table, to Cas's papers, to the real culprit of the whole commotion resting and melting on the plate next to Cas's elbow.

Dean's eyebrow rode up to his hairline.

"You took the last slice of pie," he accused, bravely hiding his disappointment. It wasn't the first time he considered buying a separate fridge to put in his room. Disappearing snacks and candies were one thing. Overt stealing of the last slice of pecan pie was simply rude. "Dude, not okay."

"Oh, did you want it?" Cas shot him his wide-eyed, innocent look. The 'I used to be an angel and I've little comprehension of human customs' type that would have worked on Dean, normally. But this was pecan pie they were talking. "I thought no one wanted it, it was in the fridge."

"Well, you should have asked then."

"Um, do you want it, Dean? There's still some left."

Dean looked at the sad, half-eaten slice, whipped cream dropping off the edges, before going back to glaring at Cas.

"No, thanks, eat it," he muttered through his clenched jaw, plopping down on the chair, making a point of showing his discontent. "You keep living off sweets, you're gonna get fat."

It was supposed to be a throwaway line, a joke. Just a thing you say when some asshole eats the damn last slice of a pie and has been eating your stock of sweets since moving in. It wasn't supposed to turn into a great revelation when all elements suddenly click together. The elements he should never have noticed: the curve of Cas's tummy, a softer contour of his hip bones, that fucking belt snapped on a hole looser than it used to be, leaving the pale mark as an evidence.

"Ha!" Dean slapped his palm against the table. "You've gotten fat already, haven't you?"

As Dean's chuckle resounded, a look of horror flashed on Cas's face. The man masked it with a furrow of his brow, lips puckered, arms crossed defensively, but the redness that flushed his neck betrayed him.

"No, I haven't!" he snapped back, probably a bit hastier than he intended.

He stuck his nose back to his papers to indicate the end of conversation but Dean, against his better judgement, just couldn't let go.

"Your belt." Dean leaned to reach behind the table and pull the hem of Cas's undershirt up, too amused to hang on to the tummy this time. "You loosened it."

Cas smacked his hand and fixed his shirt. He was calm when he spoke again, never raising his eyes to Dean.

"I'll admit it has gotten a little restraining. When I was sitting," he rushed to add, pages turning between his fingers. "But now it's too loose and the belt doesn't serve its function anymore, which is annoying."

"Don't worry, you'll fill it up soon enough," Dean kept teasing, his lopsided smile went unnoticed by Cas. He was being a total ass and he knew it, but Cas overreacting to the whole thing was adorable to watch.

Cas's glare wiped the smile off Dean's face at once. He seemed seconds away from sending all of Heaven's fury down on him, which was frankly terrifying.

"Even if I do," he drawled the words, voice gruff and powerful as in his good, old, angelic days, "that's none of your business." He made a full-body turn away from Dean and pulled the plate with half-eaten pie closer, but instead of eating it, started dabbing at it with the fork.

"Whoah, easy Cas, I was just teasing, man," he bumped Cas's calf with his foot, but Cas only moved his leg away. "Come on, it's not a big deal. God knows — and a whole ton of ladies too — I've a bit of tummy myself. Let me tell you, they love it. Ladies, of course, not God."

"I don't doubt that," Cas commented in a tone suggesting that he did doubt that very much.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, Cas, okay?" he said, honestly, now really starting to feel like a grade-A dick. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but if it's a problem, you can always go jogging with Sam."

"Did I hear jogging?" Sam popped out of nowhere like a creepy guy from a detergent commercial, face bright, grin wide. Dean really wanted to punch him.

"Yes," Cas turned to Sam, before Dean could so much as open his mouth, "Dean's worried about his pouch and wanted to take up jogging."

It was a freakin' slap to the face and Dean needed a good second to get a grasp on what had actually just happened. A little part of his brain assured him that he had totally deserved it. The whole rest pounded the alarm. He'd gone all sweet and apologetic on Cas and this was what the guy repaid him with? That was just a complete misuse of trust.

"Pouch?" Dean echoed. "I don't have a pouch, you have a pouch!" He threw his arms up turning to Sam. "Cas has been sitting on his ass all days and eating my food and getting fat. You should give him your worst."

Sam seemed way too amused by the situation. With his hands in his pockets, he let riled up Dean go over all kinds of hell he should put Cas through. Finally, around the full-on polygon routine, Sam raised his palm.

"Alright, get it, Dean," he cut Dean off mid-sentence. "Here's an idea. How about the both of you join me? If not to lose the pouches you might or might not have, then just for health." Sam ended with a shrug, like he'd just given the most innocent statement ever.

Dean put all his energy into pulling a disgusted grimace, preparing a violent refusal, which only allowed Cas beat him to the answer.

"I think that's an excellent idea, Sam. Thank you."

They were doing this thing again. The two against one that made Dean feel like the third wheel. Chick-flick buddies, soft-rock buddies. Now they could be jogging buddies too. Maybe it's Dean, after all, who should go out find himself a wife. Not that he'd ever thought about any other dynamics where Sam finds a girlfriend and Dean— yeah, that had never crossed his mind.

Dean snorted. "I'm not gonna start jogging like some soccer mom. What's next? Pilates?"

As he watched Sam's mouth open, Dean realized he'd just given him the perfect topic to rant on about it, the health benefits, condition, cardio and what not of pilates, and maybe it wasn't such a bad thing as long as it could take the two of them off his back.

But before Sam could say anything, Cas cut in, turning out to be a perfect ass, which he'd, of course, had to learn from Dean.

"Are you afraid you won't keep up?" Cas challenged him and if Dean ever thought of his earlier smirk as smug, well, what was he supposed to call this then?

Cas'd known exactly where to hit, fuck Dean's pride very much.

"I won't keep up?" Dean barked. "You won't keep up. You and your last slice of pie."

"Okay, great!" Sam surmised before Dean could protest. "See you tomorrow at seven, then! Okay, eight," he corrected for Dean's sake and left just like that before Dean could punch him.

Before he could punch either of them, not really sure which of them he wanted to murder more: Cas with his smug face or Sam with his excitement.

So there he is. Jogging. Spitting out whatever's left of his lungs and cursing himself for not throwing his alarm clock at Sam when he intruded his room in the morning after the fifth snooze. It would have only taken a lot of grunting and a very impolite manner of saying "no" to back out. Well, that and a whole lot of his pride.

Now he's not sure his pride was worth it.

It was fun at the beginning. Or maybe fun isn't the most proper word. But he sure had great views. Like a pro-jogger, Cas dressed up in a gray t-shirt that stretched across his chest and a pair of tight shorts he magically pulled out from God knows where.

Dean's gotta be thankful for those and curse them at the same time. They hug the curve of Cas's ass and expose the muscles of his thighs and his calves as they tense in the run and during the warm-up Sam so stubbornly forced them into. Apparently, before you start training you have to train for the training. And then, after training, you train some more.

And people say Inception was complicated.

"You're not even trying," Sam scolded Dean, hovering over him like a freakin' PE teacher. "If you don't stretch well, you might injure something. Take an example from Cas."

An asshole PE teacher, he added the last part to play on Dean's newfound competitiveness, but it could hardly help. Observing Cas as he stretched was exactly why Dean wasn't trying. Why bend over to touch his fingers to his toes, when there was Cas doing the same thing right before Dean, his back turned to him. His lower, lower back.

It was a strain, putting his eyes to the ground, but it would have been a bigger strain to exercise if he hadn't.

Running was easy: chasing, even fleeing - that he could do: going from point A to point B. It all made sense, especially on the adrenaline rush when the powerful juice shot through his veins and filled his muscles with just enough energy to make it to wherever he needed to be. Jogging, on the other hand, felt straight-up douchey. Putting one foot in front of another in a fashion slightly more upbeat than in walking but much slower than in sprint. And there's no fucking destination, only running round and round in circles. Douchey and pointless, that's what jogging is.

But there's also no philosophy to it and as soon as Dean caught his pace, he was good. They ran in single file on the narrow path between the trees: Sam leading the way, Dean at the back. Cas's nylon-clad ass bumping up and down in front of him. Maybe the whole jogging thing hadn't been a completely horrible idea after all.

His contentment didn't last long, though, and soon even his perfect view on the muscles on Cas's back flexing underneath his tight shirt couldn't take his thoughts off his own burning muscles. Especially as said view started to drift away, bit after bit.

"Dean, we can stop if you need rest," Sam shouted to him, glancing at him over his shoulder and never even losing a step. "You shouldn't force yourself, it's your first time."

"I'm fine, keep going." He waved at Sam, secretly counting on a stray root popping out on the path right at Sam's toes.

He couldn't give up then, when Cas hardly broke a sweat and he can't give up now, even if he's started having a near out of body experience around what must have been the tenth mile.

"Ten miles?" Sam chuckles at Dean's wheezed out observation. "We've only run like half a mile."

"What?" Dean feels like his entire - or whatever is left of - soul is fleeing his tormented body.

"Three-fourths maybe."

He finally says fuck it at that, because it's one thing to sacrifice his temporary well-being for ten miles, three-fourths of a mile are certainly not worth it.

He doesn't take another step beyond the six feet he needs to slow down and roll into the coat of fallen leaves. He listens to the two sets of steps jogging away as he tries to calm his breath. The relief of lying down, relaxing his poor legs feels nearly heavenly. The cool ground beneath his back is a balm to his burning skin.

Through the beating of his heart pounding in his ears, he doesn't hear the one set of steps coming back.

"Sam said we need to stretch now," says Cas's face, appearing for a second in his field of vision.

"Fuck stretching," Dean mutters, turning his head to where Cas is already diving down to his right ankle. "We've already done that."

"Yea, but if you don't, you might get cramps."

"Fuck cramps," Dean decides, bringing his palms to his eyes, even though the prospect of having his muscles curl into hard, painful lumps and their echoes follow his every movement for hours is something he's not really looking forward to. Still, not bad enough, at the moment at least, to get him to move his legs. Even if his legs could move.

And then his legs are moving. At least one of them is, pulling up, heel to his butt, knee to his chin. Dean's eyes shoot open.

"What the hell are you doing, Cas?"

The majority of Dean's vision, when he holds his head up, is filled with his own leg. The rest of it comprises of Cas's flushed, smiley face and hair sticking up.

"Helping you stretch," Cas answers matter-of-factly. One of his palms holding Dean's shin, the other wrapped around his ankle. "Scream if I push too hard."

Dean tries to slap Cas's hand away and wiggle himself out of the situation that doesn't feel as uncomfortable as it should. But the guy's grip turns out inescapable and with a firm press he has Dean pinned to the ground. Dean surrenders.

"How the hell are you not dying?" he asks Cas as he puts his leg down and grabs the other. He's got way too much energy for what they've both just gone through. Apparently, for Cas it was a walk - or jog - in the park and not a walk through hell.

"I am, constantly," he answers with a playful spark in his eyes. "Each day closer to death."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Wow, you're so funny. Forgive me not laughing."

Cas pushes closer, using his entire body as leverage, head low. The huff of his breath brushes the tip of Dean's nose. His eyes, wide and blue, are the size of Jupiter. Dean needs to close his, concentrate on the reddish glow of sunrays piercing through them instead of that blue. Instead of those lips, parted in heavier breaths, inches from him.

"You'll keep getting better as you keep training."

Dean's eyes shoot wide open. His terror must be showing on his face because Cas chuckles.

"What? Are you done showing me you can keep up?" he teases, helping Dean seat up.

"Don't ruin it," Dean warns, but there's hardly any threat in his voice. He got his ass kicked today and he should at least try to own up to it. "You don't plan to-" he trails off.

"I do," Cas answers, pretty damn sure of his decision.

Dean's not really surprised, Cas did good. Hopping from foot to foot, posture straight, hands swinging back and forth, he looked like he was made for it. He never even let his head down to make sure he won't stumble and fall flat on his face.

"Huh, well, good, I guess."

Cas lands his elbows on his knees, leans forward, as if he wasn't too close to Dean already, still sitting right next to Dean's knees, his calf touching Dean's bare arm.

"It's nice, jogging, it let me clear my head. Before you started wheezing behind me."

"Shut up." Dean grabs a bunch of leaves and throws them at Cas.

"Besides," Cas smiles and shakes the leaves off himself, "it is good for health. And you were right, I should pay more attention to, uh, this stuff. I don't just mean weight, but also my muscles, strength, stamina. Angels are constant, we— they don't take strength from exercises. Human bodies need that. They are always changing, whether you do something about it or not. I'm slowly starting to wrap my head around the idea. I have to make a decision how I want this body to change."

There is nothing in his tone, his sullen expression to suggest he isn't one hundred percent serious about that. Wanting to take control of the things he can actually control seems like a great next step to moving forward, and even if that means putting up with another olympian wannabe at home, Dean'll be damned if he won't support him all the way. As long as he doesn't have to take a part more active than that of a cheerleader, that is.

"Nice epiphany there, buddy," Dean says to lighten the atmosphere. "You should be glad you didn't end up as a teenager, that would be a wild ride."

Cas huffs out a brief laugh before turning his eyes to his fingers playing with a dry, cracked leaf. "At least I'd have good two decades until popping discs and, and graying hair."

Dean shoots him a sympathetic smile the guy doesn't even see. It seems silly to worry about gray hair when neither of them might live long enough anyway. But then, Cas had gone most of his existence with a slightly longer life expectancy in mind. And died a few times before. Maybe that's not the death part that concerns Cas, at all, but rather the way bodies tend to decay with their hearts still beating.

"Don't be so vain." Dean bumps Cas's knee. "You'll look dignified in salt and pepper."

It works, when Cas's face perks back up, there's no sign of sulking on it.

"Thanks. You too."

"Yeah, we'll be two, dignified, old men," Dean snarks, as he attempts to gather himself off the ground. "At least, then, no one will force me into jogging anymore. Let's go."

Cas is up in one graceful move. Dean might be taking his time but he surely doesn't need Cas's help to stand on his own two feet. He only takes Cas's outstretched hand out of a courtesy. His legs are still a little shaky, but he can walk just fine, and this time he keeps up with Cas as they begin their march back home.

"I could really eat a giant, greasy burger right now," Dean mutters, patting his stomach, hoping Cas won't go all salad-buddy with Sam as well. There's only so much betrayal Dean can take. "How far away are we?"

Cas turns to him with the fucking widest grin ever. "Ten miles."

At least he doesn't dodge, when Dean serves him a well-deserved punch in the shoulder.


	7. Like Figure Skaters

Cas's eager stare burns through Dean's head, the corners of his lips curl up softly, just a bit on the side of mischievous. And the reason's right there, all four of them, in his hands. Two pairs of what looks like a hybrid of old leather boots and murder weapons.

He holds one pair out to Dean as if he expects him to so much as put a finger on the dust-coated nightmare.

"I'd like to try this before the ice melts," he announces.

"Go ahead." Dean shrugs. "What do I got to do with it?"

It's pointless, he knows. He's screwed. He's been screwed from the moment he decided it's a perfect day to clean up room 297. He should have checked what's in it before sending Cas in. But how could he have guessed there'd be a whole inventory of ice skates—of all things—in there?

"I'd like us to go together," Cas answers, solemnly.

Something about his choice of words makes Dean pause, how the offer sounds a little too much like asking Dean out on a— No, that's definitely not that. It's just one of those human things Cas wants to try out. Besides, a date on ice? How is that either romantic or fun?

"Thanks, I'll pass," Dean blurts, turning away not to watch Cas's smile fall.

Cas sighs, but it's not exactly a disappointed sigh, rather an annoyed one.

"Why not?" he asks, not moving an inch behind Dean's back.

Dean keeps his eyes on the broom as he makes slow sweeps along the wall before answering. "I– I just don't feel like it."

"Okay," Cas says in an audio equivalent of a shrug. "Then I'll go by myself."

"Have fun," Dean mutters, more to himself than to Cas, whose steps shuffle away, muffled by fifteen layers of dust on the floor. "Wait," he swings around, dragging the broom with him, "uh, where do you wanna do it? On a lake or something?"

He's ready with the entire lecture. On how the ice might be too thin, yes, even if it's this cold. On how it might break and Cas will fall into freezing water, get trapped under the ice and die. On how Dean won't even find his purple, frozen body until spring, not for the lack of trying—though that one he won't admit.

But Cas is just looking at Dean like he's an idiot.

"On the ice rink, in town," he explains, putting Dean's designated pair of skates back on a shelf.

"The rink?" Dean's eyebrows snap together then relax just as fast. "Oh, the– the rink, the, oh yeah," he mumbles.

He might have been very deliberately overlooking the broad pool of ice—always crowded, filled with people swerving on it in circles like a whirlpool—for the last two months.

"Yes, that rink," Cas confirms, slumping down on a freaking germ factory of a chair.

He spends the next minute making noises as his fingers slip on dust. At last, he's got both skates tied securely on his feet.

"You could clean them first," Dean grumbles as soon as the sad little show is over.

"Good idea."

Dean shakes his head. "Take them off," he barks, snatching 'his' skates from the shelf, not failing to accentuate his displeasure at the idea of skating. "They need sharpening before you can go anywhere in them."

Cas shoots him a smirk. "I thought you didn't–"

"Shut up," Dean cuts him off. "But we're going after they close."

* * *

Cas carries his skates by the laces, wrapped around his fingers, hanging loosely at his side. There's enough space for them in Dean's bag, but Cas, apparently, likes the thrill of two razor sharp blades swinging back and forth around his calves. At least he didn't throw the laces over his neck, the blades pointing at his heart. Dean's got enough of that particular view for a lifetime.

It's nearing ten when they approach the empty rink. The white pool of ice is only lit by the full moon. Poetically perfect. Can't get that romantic in the electric light. Not that romantic's what either of them aimed for. Why would they? They're only here so Cas can learn to skate, after all.

Cas wraps his palm around the edge of the fence. "Isn't this trespassing?"

Dean shrugs. "Only if we get caught."

"Let's not get caught, then," Cas agrees.

He sits down on a bench and proceeds to take off his shoes. He exchanges them for his, now clean and shiny, black ice skates. Consumed with the task, he doesn't look up at Dean until he's done tying up the laces.

"You have to put them on to skate," he reminds Dean, pointing to the free space beside him.

Dean grumbles a profanity to himself and moves to take a spot on the bench. He changes his shoes with hesitation. He takes his time while Cas hovers over him impatiently.

"You can go ahead and start without me," Dean says, bent down, not moving his eyes up. "Unless you need me to hold your hand out there." He can barely hold up his sarcasm to the end of the sentence.

Cas doesn't move. "The entrance is closed, we'll have to jump over."

Sure, that's exactly what Dean needed, jumping on the fucking ice like he's some freaking figure skater or what not. He ties up the skates in silence, makes sure they're tight and secure before getting up and stepping to the fence on wobbly legs.

"Do you need help?"

"No," he barks. He's not even on the ice yet, for fuck's sake. He just needs to get a proper grip on this walking-on-blades thing. He's pretty sure that's not a survival skill humankind has embroidered in its genes. "After you."

The fence is solid, so it doesn't take Cas more than two seconds to get to the other side. His skates make a dull sound hitting the ice. He lets go of the fence as he gets the feel of the ice underneath his feet. He doesn't move farther than a step away, waiting for Dean to follow.

Dean regards the barrier separating him from the disaster one last time. "Let's get it over with."

Cas's eyes won't leave him be for one second as he throws his legs over the fence with all of his usual grace and freezes halfway down. From there, he lets himself down slowly, blades hovering over the ice before they finally reach it. He pushes his heels all the way back to the fence and stands up straight, never loosening his grip.

"Okay," he mutters like he's got it, though he doesn't got it.

"Okay," Cas replies and turns in a semi-fluid motion.

He pushes himself with one foot, sliding a few yards away from Dean. Just for the feel of the ice under his skates, of the new motions. From where Dean's standing, he looks nearly like a pro, his ass sways rhythmically from to side. He only gets a little wobbly at the end of his trek as he tries to stop and turn back. Even though he seemed at risk there for a moment, he successfully finishes his maneuver and turns to Dean.

"This is easier than I thought it'd be." From the distance, in the dim moonlight, Dean can't see his face, he still bets on a triumphant smirk to be what's adorning it. "Are you just going to stand there?"

"Yup, I'm, uh— I'm warming up!" Dean calls to him, ripping one hand off the fence and raising it overhead. "You should warm up too, you know?"

He makes a few more weird, pseudo-gymnastic movements with his hands before Cas reaches his side.

"You can't skate?" His question sounds more like a statement.

"Of course I can!" Dean blurts out with zero confidence and a lot of defiance. "I just—" he swallows—"I just never had an occasion to skate, okay?"

"Oh." Cas huffs, way too cheery.

"Whatchu grinning about?" Dean barks, curling his fists at his sides, legs stiff like two metal poles trying to drill themselves safely into the ice. "What's so fucking funny?"

Cas takes his sweet time, savoring the moment. With one foot he pushes himself off and halts right next to Dean, so close his warm breath brushes Dean's cheek when he speaks.

"I didn't try to mock you, Dean, it's just—" he licks his melon chapstick off his bottom lip and casts his eyes to where the tips of their skates came near, almost touching. "All these things I've tried since I fell… I never thought I'd witness you doing something for the first time."

Dean blinks at him, slowly. "Dude, you literally got me crawling out of the grave for the first time. That not enough?"

Cas nods, amused. His woolen glove trails down along the sleeve of Dean's jacket as his eyes check for a reaction.

"I meant the mundane things." His long fingers curl around Dean's right wrist. Dean doesn't like where this is going, but he doesn't protest. "The human things."

As Cas's blade clanks against the ice, Dean knows there's nothing he can do but hope he'll still be capable of sitting on his ass in the nearest future. He lets Cas take the lead.

To Dean's relief, Cas turns him ninety degrees, keeps the fence within the reach of Dean's hand. No jumping into deep waters, thank fuck.

"You know this—" he cuts off as the first pull throws him off-balance, but he straightens up easily. He focuses on keeping his blades parallel as they carry him smoothly forward. "This isn't anywhere near tasting pecan pie for the first time. This isn't human, this goes against basic survival instincts."

He goes on and on, tugged by Cas, whose grip never loosens, his free hand shooting up to hover over the fence, then falling back to his side. And Cas? He's freaking beaming at him, in an utter disregard of Dean's, very sensible, concerns.

"Stop that," Dean blurts, finishing his monolog. They've barely traveled a few yards and his muscles are already pretty tired from tensing up.

"Stop what?"

"Grinning."

To that, Cas, the asshole that he is, grins even wider. "I think it'll be easier if you start co-operating," he offers. "And bend your knees."

"Oh really? Thanks, couch!" he snarks. He steers his blades towards the fence, holds onto its edge, forcing Cas to stop. Cas's hand lets go of his. "Since when are you such a natural born skater anyway?"

Cas cocks his head to the side as he leans against the fence. "Your wording would suggest that since my birth, which I did not—" he cuts off at the sight of Dean rolling his eyes. "I don't know. It's all about the right movements and the balance of the body. You just have to—"

"I know what I have to do, Cas. I watch hockey, alright?"

Cas nods and pushes his black hat deeper on his forehead. The rim nearly touches his eyebrows now and makes him look really dumb and cute in that… Cas sort of way.

"I'm here," Cas murmurs and moves to clear the passage for Dean.

Dean rubs his palms together, bends his knees, as instructed, finds his center of gravity. Eyes fixed on the ice, lips pressed tight, he holds the posture like he's waiting for the ready-set-go.

Here goes nothing.

He pushes himself off with one foot and doesn't fall. As he slides forward, he puts the foot down and shifts his weight to it, just to push back with the other.

Cas doesn't leave his side. "Not bad," he teases like he's learned from the best.

Dean chuckles, stealing a glance at Cas's smiling mouth. "Got a good teacher," he says, shifting his weight again.

He puts too much energy into it this time, or maybe the skate hits the ice at the wrong angle: Dean doesn't have much time to analyze when his left leg is trying to flee to Canada. He hops, tap-dances a little, all in an attempt to remain vertical, but the world starts slipping anyway.

He throws his hands out to find something, anything, that'll hold him. All they find is Cas's palm, a strong grasp, an even stronger yank forward. There's Cas's fist wrapped around the front of Dean's jacket and his breath on Dean's face and for a second Dean thinks they've got it.

The next second, the momentum hauls him over and Dean topples forward, Cas's hand still pulling him in, his body receding as their skates collide. As they stumble, all Dean sees are Cas's eyes, but all he can think of is how to avoid smashing his nose.

The landing is as tremulous as Dean had imagined, even though Cas's body broke the worst of his fall. Except for Dean's knees and the heels of his palms, which now pulsate dully.

"Cas?" he shouts right into Cas's ear before he can manage to raise himself up. "Cas, you okay?"

In an answer, a long, pained growl comes out of Cas's mouth. His eyes are wide open and dark in the dim moonlight. They fix on Dean's face as it hovers above his. His breath is heavy as if he's just run half a marathon.

"Dean?" Cas grunts and the word leaves his mouth in a cloud of hot air, white against the cold—his lips, puffy and dark, hang parted mere inches beneath Dean's.

Dean licks his own lip and darts his eyes back to Cas's eyes. "Yeah?" he whispers softly, not to disturb the moment.

"Get off me."

Dean springs away like he's been burned. "Right, sorry, Cas."

He rolls onto the ice, right beside Cas and helps him sit up, slowly and with a lot of moaning from the poor guy.

"Did you hit your head?" Dean asks, concerned, slipping his fingers under Cas's hat.

In a fall like this, headbutting a floor of ice could be as lethal as anything. But there's no blood, no fast-growing bump or a tenderness that'd make Cas flinch at Dean's touch.

"No," Cas ensures him, shifting to the side, slowly, letting Dean's fingers follow. "Just my ass."

Dean sighs, relieved. He tugs his fingers down Cas's nape, brushing the hot skin over the scarf. "Alright—" he breaks the touch and fixes Cas's hat, pulls it down low the way Cas likes it—"you'll live, then."

"I suppose."

Dean takes his time with getting up, back on the sharp edges of his skates. He outstretches his hand to Cas, pulls him up without slipping. A few small steps and they're safely holding onto the fence again.

"This went well." Dean nudges Cas, as the guy massages his aching butt. "So, wanna head back now?"

Cas shakes his head. "I don't tend to give up just because I fell."

Pursing his lips, Dean hums a bit of a dumbfounded approval. The deepness of the words doesn't escape him, even with all the butt-rubbing accompanying them.

"I just need a minute."

Dean's knees need a minute, too. Or two, maybe. He bends them and straightens in turns until the throbbing eases. It should be fine. He's knees have been through things much worse than a little skating accident.

"How about that, huh?" Dean murmurs. Cas's eyes snap up to him, eyebrows knitted together. "You've just been blessed with an involvement in my first kerfuffle on the ice."

Cas chuckles, turning his whole body towards Dean. "So there are more of those firsts?" he asks with an unfamiliar smirk stretched out on his lips.

The breath gets caught in Dean's throat as he tries to make a sound, which is for the better, probably. Because really, what was that even supposed to mean? And why do Dean's fingers ache to reach out, grab Cas by his scarf and pull him in just to wipe that sly smirk off his face in the surest way he knows?

Must be something in Dean's startled face that signals Cas off, and he casts his eyes down to the ice underneath their feet. And Dean could swear, even in the blue moonlight, he can see his cheeks burn bright red.

Cas opens his mouth to say something as he begins to turn away, but Dean is faster, he climbs closer, grabs him by the sleeve.

"Oh, there're many more," he says, voice hushed, closer to a purr than he intended. "You've no idea."

It's Cas now that moves his lips soundlessly. His gaze chooses to fix on Dean's lips, rather than his eyes. His Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows hard. "Like what?" he asks, at last, the confidence back in his voice.

How long has it been since Dean first wished for this chance? For the world to go still around them like the cold froze the time too. For Cas's face to be this close and this anticipating. With every little green light on, if Dean got it all wrong, Cas will have no right to blame him. If by any chance Dean's lips aren't meant to close the distance, how can he know?

Through the damned glove, Dean can't feel a thing when his fingers reach out to cup Cas's cheek. But it's enough of a warning sign and Cas should spring back, or flinch, cock his head to the side in question.

Cas remains still.

"Like—" Dean trails off to exchange the words for actions. Cas's chin lifts up before Dean can lean in an inch, his eyes finally afenceon Dean's lips and there's nothing but the two dark pools in Dean's vision, drifting closer. Something shifts in the periphery, a movement. "Fuck!"

Cas's eyebrows ride up, for just a second. Dean's face snaps to the left, to the figure, fast approaching down the empty street. It walks toward them, for sure, there's no way the person didn't notice two tall shapes, almost kissing on the closed ice rink.

"Someone's coming," Dean mutters, as Cas turns around to follow his stare.

It's too late to lie down and hide behind the fence, too late to jump over and run for their lives—and dignity—with the skates stuck on their feet. And the person, the man, keeps getting closer until he stops right by the rink, hands on hips.

"Stay here," Dean says. "I'll try to sort this out."

Dean takes a deep breath, too nervous about the trek across the ice to be intimidated by the guy who caught them on trespassing. It's just a few yards along the fence, so he holds onto it for dear life. The embarrassment of it all becomes worth it when the frown on the elderly man's face turns into amusement.

Dean recognizes the man, he's seen him here and there those few months they've lived here. Jones, his name is. Or Johnson, perhaps. Dean's not sure.

"Good evening, sir," he greets the man with his most charming smile. "I can explain this."

The man laces his fingers and leans over the fence. "I'm listening."

"Well, you see, my friend there? He's, uh—" Dean waves towards Cas, who's swinging back and forth in his spot. Plan A, obviously, was to pin it all on Cas. It's as close to the truth as it gets, anyway. But that seems hardly fair, even if the guy isn't here to hear it. "This is quite embarrassing, but I can't skate to save my life and my friend wanted to teach me. But you know how it is—flopping time after time on the eyes of the entire town doesn't really do good for the self-esteem."

The man raises an eyebrow. "And trespassing does?"

"No, we d—" He reaches unzips his jacket to reach for his wallet. "I'll pay whatever the rate is for an hour, we've just come and—"

The old man chortles. "Alright, alright," he says. "Don't worry about it. Every year we've got kids sneakin' in for romantic dates in the moonlight and all that." He waves a hand at Dean, standing surprised with the wallet in his palm. "You two seem a little old but, eh, go have fun."

All Dean's got left to do is thank the man and watch him leave, trying to force down the irritation. If he's being honest, he'd rather get yelled at and chased away, then have that moment, that almost kiss stolen for nothing.

It won't come back, he knows, even as he returns to Cas, slips into his space. He still, hopelessly, asks, "Where were we?"

The shade of a smile on Cas's lips is not the same and it lacks the anticipation, as if Cas too, reproaches the man. And the world is no longer still.

"You were telling me about things you've never done," Cas says so plainly as if he remembered he's not the type to obnoxiously flirt and spill innuendos by accident. He doesn't even look Dean in the eyes.

"Yeah, that, uh—" Dean clears his throat, looking for a way out. Finally, he grins and grabs Cas by his wrist. No use in wasting the rest of the night on holding onto the missed chance. "Well, I've never pulled a salchow," he announces, cheerfully. "You think I can work up to it?"


End file.
